


Can't Take You Anywhere

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Camping, Friends With Benefits, Halloween, Internalized Homophobia, Jon's subscription of issues haunts him, M/M, POV Jon Snow, Theon has Jon's number, background Jeyne/Robb, background Mya/Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 14:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: Halloween is supposed to be fun, especially when for the first time ever you get the coveted invitation to the Greyjoys' (in)famous Halloween party. Costumes, drinks, fooling around with Theon upstairs--all a welcome break. But it's just a reminder of how Jon never wins.





	Can't Take You Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, you might have noticed that yesterday this story existed in a different form. I'm deleting that version and posting this one because I was ultimately unhappy with the structural decision I went with and thought this would be better. The structure of this story has haunted me for like two years straight, so [shrug emoji] [endless internal screaming] [whatever].
> 
> Anyway, my favorite fancasts for book-Jon and book-Theon are Miles McMillan and Ben Barnes, respectively, so please feel free to picture them that way as well. :)

“Is that your costume?” Jon asked.

Theon glanced down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, which was a white shirt that said ERROR 404: COSTUME NOT FOUND.

“Yeah, got a problem with it?”

Jon shrugged. “Just a little low-effort, is all.”

Theon’s eyes flicked down Jon’s frame, and he snorted. “And wearing one of Robb’s hand-me-downs isn’t?”

“What are you talking about?” Jon plucked at his outfit, rummaging through his memories. True, the t-shirt he’d yanked from Robb’s closet, but the button-down and slacks and glasses, not to mention the idea, were all his. Well, he’d gotten the idea from the internet, but same difference.

“Yeah, Snow, don’t you remember? That was Robb’s costume like, what, a few years ago?” Theon tapped a few buttons on his phone. “Yep, here we go. See?” He turned the screen so that Jon could see. He’d pulled up a picture of Robb grinning cheerfully, and yes, he was wearing a costume just like the one Jon had on tonight: Clark Kent with his shirt unbuttoned, revealing the Superman logo underneath. The photo was dated 2016.

2016 had seen Jon trek down the Appalachian Trail with a group of friends from college after graduation. That year, Halloween had consisted of s’mores around a campfire and Ygritte drawing cat whiskers on her face and the faces of everyone who would hold still long enough to let her, which was mostly Jon.

“I wasn’t around that year.” It explained how he’d managed to copy Robb when he very deliberately tried to _not_ ever do that, but it didn’t make Jon’s sudden embarrassment go away.

“I must not have noticed,” Theon drawled, one corner of his mouth drawing up. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll figure out how to be less lame one of these years.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. It was an accident. Besides, it’s still better than any of yours.”

“Better than last year’s? Are you sure?”

Theon smirked at Jon’s sudden discomfited expression, as if he knew exactly what Jon was thinking about. The year before Theon had gone as an underwear model, wearing only a snug pair of boxer-briefs. Jon had spent the entire party accidentally looking at Theon’s crotch and growing progressively redder as the night went on. Apparently Theon had noticed, and remembered.

“Don’t worry.” Suddenly Theon leaned in and was whispering in his ear, making something hot bloom in Jon’s stomach. “If you want to see it again, I can give you a private . . .”

Mercifully Robb returned at that moment, sparing Jon from hearing any more details of what Theon wanted to show him. Theon pulled away with a covert wink Jon tried to ignore. He turned his attention to Robb, who was going as . . .

“Sporty Dumbledore?” he asked skeptically, momentarily distracted. In Robb’s hands was what looked like a wizard’s staff, and he’d donned a football helmet and a long gray beard that trailed down his chest.

“Fantasy football!” His brother threw an arm over each of their shoulders with a cheerful grin.

“It’s all coming together now,” Jon said.

“Clever,” added Theon dryly.

“A classic!” Robb exclaimed when he saw Jon’s costume, making Jon sigh and Theon snicker.

“And a non-costume, I see,” Robb added with a hint of disapproval in Theon’s direction. “I’m sure I have something else here if you want to change . . .?” he said hopefully. Robb did Halloween the way he did everything—enthusiastically and utterly without irony.

It was Jon’s turn to smirk. That was the opposite of Theon’s approach, and Robb was never going to change him.

“Nope,” Theon said. His dark eyes met Jon’s over Robb’s shoulder, his grin wide and sharp. “I do what I want.”

Robb, predictably, did not understand this exchange and thus ignored it. “All right, all right. I love you just the way you are, ironic non-participation included, _I guess,_” His look turned thoughtful. “Next year, maybe we should do a group thing. Coordinate a little . . .”

Theon groaned theatrically. “No fucking way, man.”

“Oh, come on! We’ve done it before, haven’t we?” Robb wheedled. “Remember that year me and Jon went as Mario and Luigi?”

“I’d tried to wipe it from my brain, actually.” Theon shuddered. “Coordinated costumes . . .”

Robb shoved Theon with his shoulder, making Jon lurch. “Party pooper.”

Theon made a show of checking his empty wrist. “Maybe I just want to actually go to the party?” he said pointedly.

“Right! Wait. I have to say goodbye to Jeyne. She’s not feeling well. We were going to go as peanut butter and jelly, you know, a couple’s costume, but when she said she felt sick—”

“Oh my god, who _cares_,” Theon said with a roll of his eyes. The derision of it was a little too strong to be his usual carelessness. Jon shot him a warning glance, which was returned with a glare. Robb hesitated, conflict-averse.

“Tell her I said to feel better,” Jon felt compelled to say.

Robb’s grin was grateful, his attention diverted. “Will do.”

When Robb disappeared down the hallway of his apartment, Theon snorted softly.

Jon knew what he was thinking. “Stop being such a dick to her.” It was only about the zillionth time he’d said it to Theon, but he meant it no less. He had an idea that Jeyne “didn’t feel well” specifically about spending forty minutes round-trip in a car with Theon.

“I have, and you know it,” Theon muttered.

_To her face,_ Jon thought, but didn’t say. Maybe “not being a dick to people’s faces” was the most you could hope for from Theon. Jon had to grudgingly admit it constituted progress.

Theon came up close enough behind him that Jon could feel his body heat and rested his chin on Jon’s shoulder. “You know, we could always go up to my old bedroom. There’s going to be a ton of people there, no one will notice if we disappear for a while . . .”

Jon tensed, but didn’t dislodge him. “Maybe.” Lately Theon had been getting more blasé about whatever it was they were doing, and Jon didn’t like it.

“Maybe?” Theon’s voice was low. Then his tongue was on Jon’s earlobe, making him yelp and jump.

“What are you _doing_?” Jon hissed, and of course, with his usual impeccable timing, Robb chose this moment to re-emerge, just as Jon was furiously rubbing his ear and Theon was grinning unrepentantly.

“What’s going on?” Robb asked, glancing back and forth warily between them.

“Gave him a wet willy,” Theon said cheerfully, and Robb rolled his eyes.

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

* * *

The thing about Theon was, he was really annoying.

Or he used to be, before things had gotten complicated. Obnoxious, self-absorbed, crude, disrespectful at every turn. Whatever lack of overt hostility they’d ever conjured was for Robb’s sake. At best they merely tolerated each other.

That had all changed abruptly. In retrospect, Jon could pinpoint the exact moment.

Robb was away, after eloping with someone named Jeyne in a surprise that rocked Theon and Jon. Neither of them knew her; it had come out of nowhere. Theon accused Jon of knowing about it and keeping it a secret, and Jon accused Theon of encouraging Robb to be so impetuous irresponsible.

There had been a fight. A real fight, with blood and bruises and scraped knuckles like Jon hadn’t been in since he was a kid. It was messier and clumsier and slower than he remembered it being. Eventually Jon found himself on the ground while Theon was leaning against a tree, clutching his nose.

That was it, Jon thought with resignation. The fight was over and now they would reapply the veneer of civility, for Robb’s sake.

Then something curious happened.

Theon started to laugh. It was clear, somehow, that he was not laughing at Jon, but at both of them, at the situation, at Robb, at life. And Jon started laughing too.

“Face it,” Jon thickly, watching as blood dripped down Theon’s chin and fell onto his hoodie. “He left us both.”

Theon helped Jon up from the dirt—he could be generous in victory—and Jon helped him clean it off. From then on, although he hadn’t realized it right away, things were different. Theon’s jokes began to include him instead of being at his expense, and it was surprisingly enjoyable to have him whispering sarcastic commentary into his ear at unexpected times. Jon began to roll his eyes at Theon’s antics in fond exasperation instead of mortal offense. Robb was puzzled but pleased by this change of dynamic, declaring that he knew all along they had it in them.

* * *

The party was Theon’s older sister’s, and it was held at her house, Theon’s childhood home. A creaking old run-down manse, it was atmospherically ideal for Halloween, though Jon had no idea how she managed to live in it the rest of the year.

It was a big party. Partygoers spilled out the front door, filled the porch, and loitered in the front yard, which was dotted with what looked like real gravestones. Tons of faces Jon had never seen, which, he knew, meant Robb and Theon would be happy as clams enjoying the delights of extroversion while Jon held up a wall in the corner.

He knew Asha, at least, who greeted them all with a wink and cheek-kisses—Theon got a loud, smacking auntie-type one—pivoting so they could admire her costume. She was a pirate. Not one of the dumb sexy ones, but an elaborate and complicated getup that looked almost real—leather and wool and what looked like a real knife with an ivory handle sticking out of her boot.

“The Greyjoys were pirates way back when,” she explained. “The golden days, to hear dear old Dad talk about it.”

“We pillaged the open seas,” said Theon, lowering and roughening his voice. “We took what we wanted and we didn’t let anyone get our way.”

Asha laughed. “Yes, all that nonsense.”

“Mum does the same. Sort of. All that talk about the Tullys being lords of the river, you know. The good old days.” Robb almost seemed to turn to Jon for confirmation before remembering there was no Tully in his half-brother. He jogged Jon with his elbow. “And Dad, he always does his ‘winter is coming’ bit.”

“Ominous,” Jon agreed. “You’d think we were all in danger of mass starvation the moment a leaf turns orange.”

“Well . . .” Asha made a show of standing back and looking them all up and down, long and considering. “Clark Kent and fantasy football, is it?”

Robb made a disappointed noise. “You figured it out!”

“It’ll do, I suppose. And you . . . there’s no help for you, brother.”

Theon grinned. “Never was.” 

With a mock-irritated huff, Asha waved them up the front steps.

* * *

The first time was at a party not unlike this one. It was Jon’s friends—Robb had been busy doing something-or-other for Jeyne so he hadn’t been able to come, but Theon shrugged and said, “Why not? I bet a party with you and the two people of your acquaintance could use some livening up.” So they went, the two of them, to Tormund’s.

At the party, Jon ran into Ygritte and they had their first post-breakup conversation. It was perfectly fine. She ribbed him like they were old friends, which he supposed they were, and he asked her how things were going, and everything was fine, and then afterward Jon found himself in the bathroom staring at the red plastic cup in his hand. It was filled with something vile Tormund called grog—his own homemade concoction, apparently, totally disgusting—and grimly considering how long he could wait it out before Theon would agree to leave. Best case scenario, the thought, Theon would go home with someone else—but somehow that only made him feel worse.

Theon found him eventually. It might have been fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes, Jon didn’t know. When the door swung open, Jon’s head jerked up guiltily as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Theon regarded him with a raised brow. “Hiding in the bathroom, Snow?”

Jon scowled. “No,” he said automatically. Then he frowned into his drink. “How did you find me?”

“Didn’t.” At Jon’s bewildered look he added, “This is the first bathroom I found. That shit really goes through you.”

Jon grimaced. “I only managed one sip, to be polite.” Then, hastily—that one sip must have gone to his head, why else tell Theon anything—he added, “_Don’t_ tell him I said that.”

“It’s the nastiest shit you can find—if you don’t step foot in the islands. It’s not surprising I have a stronger constitution than your lot. This has nothing on my uncle's brews. Ah, good memories.” Theon patted his stomach with a grin. 

Jon rolled his eyes. "You're talking the talk, but I don't see you walking the walk."

Immediately Theon tossed back a mouthful . . . then sputtered and shuddered, to Jon's amusement. He slapped Theon on the back in a false show of helpfulness.

"You all right there?"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you too." Theon coughed and swallowed. "Besides, at least I'm not a coward hiding away in a bathroom."

Jon didn't bother to deny it this time. Theon would never believe him, the more he protested, and besides, maybe there was some truth to the accusation.

“So,” Theon murmured, coming to sit on edge of the bathtub and twitching the shower curtain, “what frightening monster are you hiding from in here?”

“No monsters.”

“No? Just friends?” He grinned. “Or . . . exes?”

Jon’s minute sigh must have clued him into his hitting the mark.

“Oh no,” Theon said with mock sympathy, “is she just not that into you?”

Jon kicked his ankle. “Shut up. No. It’s not like that.”

In a shocking show of patience, Theon waited.

“She has a date next week,” Jon mumbled finally.

Theon squinted at him. “And you’re . . . jealous or not jealous?”

“Not jealous,” Jon rushed to say. “It’s just . . .”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Your ex is the first to move on. Welcome to a rite of passage most people accomplish at a much younger age. How old are you again? Eighty?”

“Shove it, Theon.”

“Shan’t.”

“Besides, it’s not like you have any exes, so how would you know? Have you ever even been with someone for longer than a single night?”

Theon smirked. “You say that like it’s an insult, but you’re only revealing your own pathetic-ness.”

Jon rolled his eyes and that, and Theon’s look turned thoughtful. “Well, you know what you could do . . .”

“What?” Jon asked dubiously. It was Theon, after all: any suggestion was bound to be questionable at best.

Theon grinned. “Move on first. Get over by getting under, you know what I mean?”

Jon stared at him, uncomprehending. “What, like—with who? A stranger? When? Where? No,” he decided. “That’s not me.”

Theon flicked him on the forehead. “You really are thick. No wonder she had to sneak into your dorm room and wait for you naked on the bed.”

“She _told_ you that?” Jon said, momentarily sidetracked. “No. Doesn’t matter. Wait—why am I thick?”

Theon gave him a look like he was the stupidest person in the universe. Then his hand was wrapping around the back of Jon’s neck, and he only had a moment to realize what was happening before Theon’s mouth was pressed against his.

If he could have, he would have pulled away out of sheer surprise. Instead his mouth fell open and Theon’s tongue slipped inside. Maybe that one sip really had gone to his head. In the rush of confusion and sensation, Jon had a moment of clarity where he thought, _This is happening. I’m_ letting _this happen_. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Theon was playing some kind of joke on him, even as Theon’s other hand curled into the front of his shirt and he slid off the bathtub to kneel between Jon’s knees. His mouth moved to Jon’s neck, and his hand skated up his thigh before pressing against the bulge in his jeans.

“Unh,” Jon managed. Then Theon was pushing him back with one hand on his chest while the other undid his fly and drew his cock out.

Not a prank, the way Theon ran his tongue over the leaking slit at the tip and paused to give Jon a wicked grin before engulfing him. The back of Jon’s head thumped against the wall. He thought the grin might be the more arousing thing, oddly enough. It lingered around his eyes, in every glance he turned upward even while his lips were stretched around Jon's dick. The sight of it did something to Jon.

He wasn't sure how to touch Theon, and it showed--his fingers danced over Theon's hair, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. He didn't know whether he could hold Theon fast, or grip him hard, and he was too embarrassed to try. Without something to hold on to, he felt unmoored.

So on the edge was he that he didn't quite see his orgasm coming--Theon grimaced but didn't pull away until Jon was done.

"Sorry," Jon offered, the word coming out breathy.

Theon wiped his mouth. The impatient cast to the gesture made Jon look down, between Theon's legs, where he could see Theon's erection bulging in the front of his jeans. There was a pregnant pause.

"You scared, Snow?"

Jon rolled his eyes. He braced one hand on Theon's shoulder and smoothed the other down his chest, pausing at the hem of Theon's shirt to brush his fingers against the skin underneath and watch Theon's eyes flutter, his wet lips part. Jon's cheek brushed the top of Theon's head.

"Do I . . . do I have to show you how?" Theon asked. The wobble in his voice made Jon feel triumphant.

"I have one," Jon answered. "I think I can figure it out."

He cupped Theon's dick and squeezed, eliciting a satisfying gasp. He rubbed an exploratory finger down the seam, from tip to root and further back still. Theon whined in the back of his throat. The sound tugged at the corners of Jon's lips. It occurred to him that this was much better than listening to him whine in the other way.

Theon's fingers fumbled to unbutton his jeans—Jon was not sure he had ever seen Theon fumble at anything—and push Jon's hand inside his boxers. His skin was hot. Jon jerked him in quick stroked. He listened to Theon's panting grow rougher, harder, his breath warm and wet on the side of Jon's neck, and on an impulse he couldn't name, Jon latched on to the place where Theon's neck met his shoulder, sucking with teeth and tongue.

Theon's fingers clenched on his with an explosive grunt just as Theon shuddered and hot liquid splashed over Jon's palm and wrist.

Jon busied himself with wiping off his hand and Theon's.

"I don't need you to groom me," Theon muttered, yanking the toilet paper out of Jon's hand. "No matter what kind of kinky shit you're into.”

In contrast to his words, Theon's tone was all low, sleepy satisfaction. It made Jon wonder what he sounded like when he woke up. He had never had cause to wonder before. When they'd all gone camping together, the three of them, he was up long before Theon or Robb. 

He eyed Theon's neck where there was now an angry red mark in the shape of Jon's mouth. His jeans were still undone, and his hair was mussed. Another new image.

"I think that's going to bruise," Jon said. "Speaking of kinky stuff."

Scowling, Theon slapped a hand over it. "Bastard," he muttered.

"I'll kiss it better, if you like." Jon was surprised to hear it come out of his mouth. It sounded like something Theon would say.

"Fuck off." This new, disgruntled Theon, able to be ruffled, intrigued Jon. 

Theon stood on unsteady legs and headed for the door. Because, Jon realized, they were done. He'd had sex with Theon Greyjoy and now it was over. It was a strange feeling, a sense that something was not quite finished.

For the rest of the night his gaze kept wandering to Theon's neck. Whenever he was caught, he felt the tips of his ears burn red.

* * *

Parties were not really Jon's thing. Hiding in the bathroom was an extreme case, but not totally atypical. Parties usually included lots of strangers, lots of _drunk_ strangers, loud and/or horrible music, and sometimes people hitting on him, which caused him to gawk awkwardly at them.

Tonight was no different. Almost immediately, Robb and Theon started doing their RobbAndTheon thing, where they tag-teamed telling a story to a group of girls ("Robb's the Nice Cop and I'm the Naughty Cop," Theon had explained airily once, which didn't even make sense), so Jon wandered away. 

He wasn’t unaccustomed to feeling left out and low-key jealous by RobbAndTheon. Lately a lot of Theon’s time was spent with Jon, and maybe he’d gotten used to it. Too used to it. But Theon was Robb’s friend first, even if he and Theon hadn’t been hanging out much lately. Still, something sat wrongly with him. He couldn't put his finger on it, so he explored the house instead.

The Greyjoy house was old, positively derelict, although in a way that suggested "about to be foreclosed on" rather than "haunted by an otherworldly presence." Asha's friends were an eclectic mix and Jon didn't know any of them, so when he found the punch, he fell back against the wall, clutching a cup, and watched people.

There were a number of other pirates, though none so elaborate and historically accurate as Asha, and the requisite number of zombies and gruesome murder victims, and a blue fairy.

Who was approaching him with a familiar head of auburn hair.

"Sansa," he said, surprised.

She’d come in an elaborate fairy costume, one he would bet was handmade. It was very well-made, blue and glittery, with a pair of thin, gossamer wings strapped to her back. Her makeup was pearlescent and glittery to match.

"Hi, Jon," she said, giving him a brief, dainty hug. "Please don't give me the big-brother 'what are you wearing?' routine."

"Don't worry, I'm sure Robb covered everything," Jon said, relieved. He'd never been much for the protective older brother act, even with Arya, but especially not with Sansa.

Sansa plucked at her outfit. "He told me it was too revealing," she complained. "The skirt comes down to my knees! It's not a sexy fairy thing, just a regular fairy thing."

"I think Robb would think a series of head-to-toe trash bags held together by duct tape was too revealing for one of his little sisters."

"Probably true. And sexist." Sansa poured herself some punch, looking paradoxically pleased by this.

"What are you doing here? Did Theon invite you?" Robb wouldn't have, and he couldn't think of how Sansa might know Asha. He couldn’t even imagine them talking to each other, they were so different—oil and water.

"My friend Mya. She used to work with Asha." As she was picking at the edge of her cup with her sparkly blue nails, she seemed to be poised on the verge of saying something more. Her next words tumbled out in a rush. "Actually, Mya’s my girlfriend. Not girlfriend as in friend, but as in, you know . . ."

It took Jon a moment to process what she was saying. "Oh. Oh! Okay."

Sansa peered at him, timidly inquisitive. “Is that a good ‘okay’ or a bad ‘okay’?”

“It’s an ‘okay’ okay?” Jon said blankly. Then he gathered himself. “Sorry, just been a little preoccupied. Have you told your mom and Dad?”

“I haven’t told anyone yet. You’re the first.”

“Me? Why?” The idea befuddled him: he had never been Sansa’s choice of confidant, nor she his. They weren’t even close, and as neither of them minded that had never changed.

“You know, because of you . . . Theon told me?” It was just like Sansa to avoid saying uncomfortable things directly, and this was so indirect he didn’t realize what she meant at first. “I almost didn’t believe him, but then I remembered how you always used to hang out with that guy Satin in college and how he was so . . .” She was turning pink with embarrassment.

“Theon _told_ you that?” He was momentarily distracted by outrage. Who else had Theon told? _Why_ was he telling people? He was so _careless_.

“Sorry! He was drunk. Or high. I don’t know. Maybe he was confused. So it’s not true?”

Jon shook himself. He might keep some things to himself, but he wasn’t a liar. “It’s true,” he said reluctantly. “I just didn’t know you knew, that’s all.” The idea that people, potentially lots of people, were just out there in the world knowing things like that about him without him knowing was more than a little discomfiting.

“I don’t think Theon has much of a filter,” she said apologetically.

“No he doesn’t,” Jon muttered.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him to a text from Theon. It said, _This coupon is good for one (1) blowjob. Redeem in the next 20m in my bedroom upstairs._ Hurriedly Jon shoved his phone back into his pocket.

"What was that?" Sansa asked with a tinge of curiosity.

"Nothing." But it wasn’t nothing. Jon was pleased. He thought of RobbAndTheon in the next room. In the past, it had always been Robb's attention he coveted, stolen by Theon, but this time it was the other way around. That was the difference, he realized.

Sansa knocked her shoulder gently against his, bringing him back. "I guess we know where it comes from, huh?" she joked.

"What?" Jon said blankly.

"You and me. You know." Sansa twirled her finger.

"Oh. Oh!" Jon cottoned on, then laughed. "It comes from Dad's side of the family. We should tell him that, definitely."

Sansa gasped in delighted horror. "Can you imagine the look on his face?"

"He would have no idea what to do with that information."

"I don't know, he and Uncle Robert were always awfully close," Sansa said between giggles.

Jon made a face that caused her to laugh even harder. Then his back pocket buzzed again, and he pulled it out.

_There's an expiration date on this offer asshole_

"Who's that?" There was a gleam in Sansa's eye.

"No one," Jon said quickly, stuffing the phone in his pocket, then amending, "Just Theon. He's bugging me, is all."

Theon was altogether too crude and unchivalrous a figure to exist very long in Sansa's delicate world. Even her grimace was delicate. "Well, you have to feel sorry for him, at least."

"Do you?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course you do! Don't you?" Her eyes widened. "You know about him and Robb, don't you?" 

Jon glanced automatically out to the other room, even though he knew Theon had disappeared. "What about them?"

Sansa leaned in like she was pleased to be divulging this secret to him. "Theon's thing for Robb," she said in a low voice. "He's been in love with him forever. He told me once when he was drunk. Right before hitting on me."

Her nose wrinkled, and then she took in Jon's expression. "I can't believe you didn't know! Oh, don't tell him I told you. I don't think he'd like that."

_No shit_, thought Jon blankly. No, Theon wouldn’t like him knowing that at all.

Sansa continued to chatter, but Jon wasn't listening. His phone buzzed again, but he couldn't bear to look at it. _Theon's thing for Robb. He's been in love with him forever._ Instead he looked at his cup. He'd forgotten he had a drink. He tossed it back in three long pulls. It tasted pink and chemical.

Sansa regarded him with amusement laced with concern. "Are you all right there, Jon?"

"I'm fine," he said automatically.

She squeezed his arm. "I'm going to find Mya and then I can introduce you?"

Jon forced a smile. "Sure thing. I'll be . . . around."

When her auburn head disappeared into the crush of a crowd, Jon didn't have anything to distract him. He wandered into the next room. He caught a glimpse of Robb's curls and his stomach bottomed out. He pretended he didn't see Robb spot him and cheerfully wave him over, and ducked out of the room. He didn't want to talk to Robb. He didn't even want to look at Robb. Guiltily he knew it wasn't Robb's fault, but Jon was angry with him nonetheless. Angrier at Theon. And angriest most of all at himself. His skin felt hot and too-tight. Sansa's words played on a loop in his mind. His feet carried him outside.

Jon breathed a sigh. The air was cold and crisp. He wanted to walk and keep walking until he was too tired to think, too exhausted to even feel. Instead, he leaned against the railing of the back porch. It felt very sturdy under his hands. Not like him. He felt like he might bow away in a strong wind, and clutched at the oak as if in doing so he might guard against this possibility.

_This is stupid_, Jon thought. He shouldn't even care. No, he _didn't_ care. Theon could do whatever he wanted. It was no business of Jon's.

Sansa's fairy wings glinted from the corner of his vision. Her back was to him. A girl with short black hair had a palm on her hip and was whispering something into Sansa's ear while she giggled, blushing, her head tipping down.

Jon turned away abruptly. He didn't want to look at that either. He could only think of one place to go where other people wouldn't disturb him.

On his way to the stairs, he grabbed another cup of punch and downed it.

He slipped under the barrier rope at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring the attached sign ("OFF LIMITS!") and the one at the top too ("I WILL END YOU FUCKHEAD!").

It was dark up here, which Jon appreciated. He had the feeling people generally heeded Asha's threats.

He turned into the first unlocked room he could find. Luck being with him—just not good luck—it was Theon's childhood room.

Jon thought about leaving, but his head was spinning a little and he wanted to rest. Just for a moment. It wasn't like Theon was here, he reasoned, and glanced around.

There was a lamp to his left, and he flicked the switch. Theon didn't live here now, so it was Theon as Jon remembered him from middle school, high school—his walls were covered in posters of the _Transformers_ movies and screamo bands, and cluttered with things Theon had bought and promptly forgotten about, like the electric guitar he could never be bothered to actually learn beyond the opening chords of "Freebird."

On the dresser was a bunch of shit, movie tickets and concert stubs, some familiar and some not. There were a bunch of photos lying face down, too, the old kind you had to take to the store to get developed, before digital was everything. He wasn't surprised to see that the photos weren't framed. Theon wasn't exactly the scrapbooking type.

He turned them over. The first one was Theon and Robb, he realized with a jolt of delayed recognition. It had been taken so long ago; they looked so young. Jon wasn’t in the picture. He wondered if he had taken it, or if he’d just been absent entirely.

In the picture Robb was laughing at the camera, while Theon was looking at Robb.

Looking at it, his expression was so clear, and so familiar. How had Jon never noticed the way Theon looked at Robb before?

Entire memories rearranged themselves in Jon's mind: Theon trying to steal Robb's attention from him, Theon dragging Robb away on sailing trips, Theon agreeing to go camping, which he despised, just for Robb's benefit.

"If you're looking for something to steal," drawled a voice from the door, "I'm afraid we hid all the valuables before your kind came over."

Jon dropped the photos like they were scorching his fingertips.

Theon was standing in the doorway—lounging, really—with his hands in his pockets. Looking like he didn't have a care in the world. The graceful slope of Theon's nose felt like an assault, as did the shadow tinting the space underneath his cheekbone and the amused curl in one side of his mouth.

It was unfair, Jon thought angrily, that he should still be forced to find Theon attractive. Of course, he'd always known. But once, his handsomeness had been a distant fact. Jon willed that distance to return.

"My kind? I'm pretty sure I rode over here with you," Jon pointed out.

Theon rolled his eyes as if Jon’s point didn’t matter.

"Theon," Jon said, and immediately felt dumb. He couldn't think of anything else to say; his mind had gone blank.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," said Theon easily. Too easily. He was casual, too, loping around the room. He didn’t know that Jon knew, of course—how could he? "Welcome to el casa de Greyjoy."

"Your Spanish is terrible." It was a thing he'd said many times, because it was true. One of Theon's pick-up tactics, in addition to the opening chords of "Freebird," was to brag about how he'd learned his Spanish in Spain, and then demonstrated saying "gracias" with the c pronounced like th. It was nearly all the Spanish Theon knew. Supposedly it was a panty-dropper. Jon had his doubts—Theon just sounded like he had a lisp whenever he demonstrated it.

Theon wandered closer. "Wasn't sure you were going to show. Jon Snow no-show."

Jon remembered his texts. He hadn’t even gotten them an hour before, but it felt like a lifetime ago. "I didn't know where your room was," he said automatically. "I only just found it now." Technically this was true, but the spirit of it was dishonest enough to make his stomach flip over.

"Well, my offer expired," Theon said breezily, drawing his fingers through Jon's belt loops and standing so close Jon could make out every eyelash. He was about to tell Theon he wasn't here to take him up on that offer anyway when Theon kissed him.

His hands came up to push Theon away, but instead settled on his shoulders. With this encouragement, Theon leaned in so that they were aligned from hip to shoulder and deepened the kiss, the warmth of it making Jon's head spin.

He'd come up here for a reason, he thought half-wildly as Theon's fingers dipped inside his waistband and his knuckles rubbed against his hipbone. When Theon nipped at his neck, Jon inhaled his scent—his shampoo or body wash or cologne or something, a smell that had become very familiar to Jon over the last few months. It was accompanied by a strange gut-punch of nostalgia—strange until he remembered he wouldn't smell it like this again, and why.

He was only making this worse, putting it off like this.

He tried to push Theon away.

Theon made a confused protesting noise before leaning back, but he didn't move away entirely. He studied Jon with an impatient look. “What? What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Before Jon could say anything, the door burst open, making them both jump.

It was Asha.

Theon’s sister stared at them for a long moment. Instinctively Jon raised a hand to cover his mouth, even though he knew it was far too late—the way they were standing, flushed and panting, painted a damningly obvious picture for anyone with two functioning eyes.

Asha threw her head back and howled. There was no other word for it. It was a long, loud laugh that Jon heard even as Theon shoved her out and muttered, "Fucking bitch."

"Do you want us to get caught?" Jon hissed when Theon only toed the door closed.

Theon shrugged. "No one else is going to come up here."

"You don't even care that she found us," Jon accused. "What if she tells somebody? What if she tells _Robb?_"

Theon's dark eyes glittered as he stepped closer. "What if she does?"

Jon stumbled back against the dresser. The world seemed to slant sideways as a fresh hellish possibility occurred to him.

"Is that what you want? For Robb to find out? Is that what you've been doing this whole time?"

Anger replaced the confusion on Theon's face. "The fuck are you on about?"

Jon's mind whirred. It made a sick kind of sense. "Sansa told me. She told me about you—you and him—"

"Me and him," Theon repeated slowly, glacially.

Jon could barely get the words out. “How you . . . how you feel about him."

Time seemed to slow as he waited for Theon's answer. He realized that part of him was hoping for some kind of explanation that would make all of this go away. That it was all a misunderstanding, that they could go back to the way things were.

Theon's next words shattered that fragile hope.

"You found me out. Well done, Snow."

Jon stared at him. "What?"

"What?" Theon repeated mockingly. His smile was nasty. "I said you were right. First time for everything. I would say I'm surprised it took you so long, but honestly, that's not really true. You're as thick as a brick wall."

Jon found he could no longer look at Theon. He turned for the door. Theon didn’t try to stop him at all, which he supposed was the nail in the coffin. There was only one thought thumping through his head to the beat of the bass downstairs: _Leave. Leave. Leave._ His skin burned with humiliation.

The party was in full swing by now, a crush of bodies in every room that Jon twisted between. Robb was down here, somewhere. Jon might run into him again. The prospect was horrifying. And Theon was his ride . . . unless he could find somebody else.

From the corner of his eye he caught a flash of auburn. His gut clenched until he recognized it was Sansa, not Robb.

When her gaze caught his, she beamed and dragged him by the elbow.

"Jon, there you are! I want you to meet Mya. Remember, I told you about her?"

It took a minute to process. Guiltily Jon remembered Sansa's girlfriend. It was the girl with the black bob and bright blue eyes, dressed like an Arctic explorer. He shook her proffered hand mechanically, his attention elsewhere, while Sansa laced their fingers together and leaned on her.

"I'm sorry," he said politely, keeping an eye out for both Theon and Robb, "can I borrow your girlfriend?"

Sansa flushed with pleasure at the word and allowed herself to be led away.

"I'm really sorry, but I'm not feeling well," he said in a rush.

Frowning, Sansa reached out to place the backs of her fingers against his forehead. It reminded him so strongly of her mother, who had never done that, that he flinched back automatically.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Just drank on an empty stomach. I came with Robb and Theon and they don't want to leave yet. I know it's an inconvenience. I'm really sorry."

Sansa's expression melted into compassion. "Of course."

Fortunately for Jon, Mya appeared, like most people, to be susceptible to Sansa's particularly lethal form of puppy dog eyes, and agreed to give him a quick ride home.

In the car, Jon pressed his forehead to the chilled window and wondered how to rearrange his life so that he never saw Theon Greyjoy again.

* * *

"He's not coming," Jon reported, shoving his phone and the offending apologetic text away. _Sorry guys, Jeyne's not feeling well, have 2 take care of her, have fun wo me!_

Leaning against the side of the car door, Theon snorted. "No shit, Sherlock."

Defenses of Robb rose in his throat. "He's busy," he muttered, slamming the trunk of his Corolla closed and trying to avoid looking too hard at Theon.

It should have been easier; not paying attention to Theon was something Jon had a lot of practice at. But the usual routine of ignoring every barb and jibe, of letting every bit of patter and swagger slide in one ear and out the other, hadn't been working so well lately. Something about how looking at Theon's mouth brought back vivid memories of how it had been on his dick. Hence the not looking.

Sometimes, when he did slip, he found Theon looking back at him, and that was almost worse. It was an insolent, knowing look. It said, _yeah, I sucked your dick and I'm not pretending otherwise._ Every time Jon saw it he wanted to combust into a fiery inferno of humiliated resentment.

He also hated how Theon made lounging casually with a cigarette look irritatingly sexy. More irritating than sexy, Jon thought stubbornly.

"We can reschedule," he said aloud to his car's trunk. The sudden openness of the weekend yawned before him. What was he going to do with himself?

"Giving up so soon?" Theon asked with a sly smile.

Resolution forgotten, Jon stared at him. "Don't tell me you still want to go. You hate camping."

Theon shrugged. "Maybe I've seen the light and wish to grace the great outdoors with my glorious presence."

_Your glorious presence,_ Jon almost repeated back before rethinking it. He wondered if Theon was just trying to get under his skin.

"Okay," he said abruptly, and watched Theon's eyes widen. "You've got all your gear, right? Get in."

He waited for Theon to disparage the company he'd be in, but Theon only lifted his hand in a mock salute.

Jon kept waiting for him to change his mind during the two-hour drive to the park, but Theon didn't back down, appearing perfectly content to spend a weekend away in the mountains in a tent. With Jon, and just Jon, for company.

It didn't make any sense. Theon barely tolerated this stuff for _Robb._ Theon's world was nightclubs and strippers and hand stamps, too-tight jeans that left little to the imagination, neon lights and greasy takeout after midnight as a hangover cure.

The whole idea had been Robb's in the first place: a throwback to their childhood taking Stark family camping trips together, a slice of nostalgia for the days before adulthood, responsibility, elopement and pregnancy. There'd been an almost manic spark in Robb's eyes when he conceived of the idea, rubbing his hands together with glee. Jon remembered feeling a flicker of skepticism at the time; now he supposed this was what he'd been afraid of.

Jon's hands tightened on the steering wheel as he took a glance at Theon out of the corner of his eye. Without the glue of Robb to hold them together, he wasn't sure how this would work, who they would be. _That's not exactly true,_ whispered a treacherous voice, and he thought of Tormund's party the month before. Jon's face heated, and the wheel jerked in his hands.

Theon whoop-yelled. "Are you trashed, Snow? That would make this weekend a lot more interesting."

"Get your feet off the dash," Jon snapped. 

Theon only laughed in response and put his earbuds back in.

The campground was Jon's choice—remote from the entrance of the park, with just a water hookup, no bells or whistles.

Theon was, unsurprisingly, utterly useless in matters like putting up the tent and making a fire.

"We can just buy food at the entrance," Theon pointed out from where he was lying with his head propped up on a log while Jon struggled with the tent. "I know I saw vending machines."

_Vending machines._ Dear God, what had Jon gotten himself into?

"It's not camping if you bring all your hair products and your curling iron and your . . . cologne or whatever." By the end of this declaration Jon was profoundly more uncomfortable than when he'd started.

The look Theon gave him dripped with condescension. "My curling iron, Snow?"

"I don't know, all that shit you do. I'm just saying, looking good or smelling good or whatever, it doesn't matter out here."

Theon smirked. "You think I look good and smell good, huh?"

Jon barely restrained himself from dragging his hands over his face. "Robb would have been a lot more helpful right now." 

Theon grinned. "Yeah, but you're stuck with me instead, since Robb is tending to his dear, sweet wife and abandoning us in the process."

"She's sick. Leave him alone." Jon pushed down the little part of himself that agreed with Theon, or at least shared his resentment.

"You're just going to defend him forever, aren't you?"

"What, you think he did something wrong?"

Theon shook his head. "Of course _you_ wouldn't think so."

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing, man."

"Well, what was he supposed to do? Abandon her and her kid?" Jon demanded.

Theon's barking laugh was short and harsh. "Man, you think I'm the one with issues. You've got a fucking subscription."

Coming with Theon alone had obviously been a huge mistake, a moment of unwise generosity that was biting Jon in the ass.

"Excuse me, my _issues?_"

Theon was clearly enjoying himself, having worked up to whatever he'd been wanting to say all along. "Well, let's see." He held up a finger. "Robb has a girlfriend already. He _cheats_ on her—that’s bad, I'd think you would agree"—another finger—"and then leaves his girlfriend for her when the wedding's already paid for, because oops"—a third finger—"it turns out he knocked her up. I wonder why that would appeal to _you_?"

"_What?_"

Theon sighed, and continued as if he was speaking to a child. "Jeyne is your mom, Robb is your dad, Roslin is Mrs. Stark. It's an analogy. Get it?"

"Why are you like this? So hateful?" Jon could barely recognize his voice for the pure rage that animated it.

Theon finally turned to him. "Hateful? I'm honest, is what I am."

Jon couldn't deal with him for a single second more, and flung himself to his feet. "I'm getting some firewood." 

"You know, you can get that at _the park entrance!_" Theon yelled after him.

Jon ignored him. He spent much of the next hour stomping off his anger, running through the conversation over and over in his head. Finding answers. Better answers. _Any_ answers. 

None of them, he knew, really addressed the fact that Theon wasn't wrong.

By the time he returned to the campsite, he wasn't any less angry, but he had settled on a response. 

He dropped his armful of brush at Theon's feet. "It doesn't matter what my issues are, he still did the right thing," he said stubbornly. "And stop trying to psychoanalyze me, because as far as issues go, you're hardly one to talk. Defense mechanism, is it? Yeah, I took psych 101 too."

Unbelievably, the corner of Theon's mouth quirked. "Well, you're not wrong."

He held out one of his earbuds. It was an offering of a sort, albeit a half-assed Theon-ish one, so Jon felt obligated to accept it. Jon dropped down next to him in the dirt and ducked his head so he could listen. It was something electronic-ish, chill with a heavy bass line.

Finally Jon couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

"What are you even doing here, anyway?" Maybe that was too aggressive. Jon added hastily, "I mean, you kind of hate me. I'm just wondering." 

Theon cocked an eyebrow. "Why, would you rather be alone?"

"No," Jon said honestly, after a moment's consideration. "And you're dodging the question."

Theon shrugged. "What else was I gonna do?"

That question was easy to answer. "Party? Get drunk? Go to one of those things with the neon bracelets?"

"They're called raves, Snow. You're fucking killing me. Also, thanks for reminding me of all the fun I could be having right now."

Theon pulled out a flask and took a swig, then looked at Jon and laughed.

"Are you gonna frog-march me to the nearest park ranger and turn me in for usage of contraband substances?"

"It's like you don't know me at all," Jon deadpanned, and swiped the flask to take a long pull. The whisky burned a hot line down his throat and he barely managed to keep from choking.

"Can't handle that much? Don't worry, Snow. I won't think less of you. Much."

Jon handed the flask back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Cicadas chirped around them in the gathering dark. Theon could be doing anything, but he was here. He might as well make it worth Theon's while.

"Come on," he said abruptly, unfolding to a standing position. The sudden change in orientation made him sway, catch his breath.

From the ground Theon blinked up at him in confusion.

"Come on," Jon insisted. "And bring the crappy whisky."

Nonplussed, Theon followed him up the trail over the dam. There was a full moon out, and they were far away enough from any cities that the stars were shining bright and clear, so there weren't many missteps and stumbles. During the day, they would have seen the wildflowers covering the sides of the dam, but right now the most visible feature was the white limestone glowing in the moonlight.

On the other side of the dam was the spillway, and the walking path led to a small nook before becoming a bridge over the running water. The nook was small, and more importantly, private. It overlooked the luminous spillway with spruces to either side, providing a little camouflage.

The bluff was steep enough that there was a little railing there. Jon leaned against it, and after a moment so did Theon beside him. 

"Postcard perfect," commented Theon, making a picture frame with his hands and a hint of mockery.

Jon shoved him lightly with his shoulder. "Just shut up and enjoy it, Greyjoy."

"Is that what you tell all your sexual partners?" Theon said with a leer.

Jon flushed and wondered if you could strain your eye muscles from rolling them too much.

"No, really, I'm so flattered."

"You should be," muttered Jon.

For several minutes of quiet, they watched the water cascade over the spillway. Theon pulled out the flask and they passed it between them, taking little sips. Not too much. In the background insects buzzed and birds called and water rushed past them.

Finally Jon said, "You're mad at him."

"Who?" Theon said innocently.

"Oh, come on. I am too, you know. Despite what you said."

"Whatever. Nothing lasts forever, et cetera. I've moved on."

But, Jon thought, he was here, with Jon. He could have been anywhere, or with anyone. Couldn't he? He struggled to think of who Theon would be hanging out with, if not him. He knew of Theon's family, vaguely, knew that Theon hated them all except Asha and secretly craved their approval at the same time. If he had other friends, Jon didn't know them. He didn't know Theon's life that well, he could admit that, but he thought he would have a vague idea of who else was in it if only through osmosis, through Robb.

But he was here, thought Jon.

"I like to come here. I've been doing it for years. It's a good spot to clear my head."

"It's very nice," Theon said, overly solicitous to the point of condescension.

"It's also," Jon said, dropping to his knees, "a great spot to get a blowjob."

Jon didn't think Theon would be very surprised by a sexual overture—he seemed to expect them wherever he went, seeming to consider them his due for merely existing—so Jon relished his round-eyed surprise and momentary speechlessness.

Theon recovered quickly, though. "Speaking from experience, I take it?"

Jon tucked his hair behind his ears. "I am, actually."

Getting Theon's jeans down was an unexpected trial, however. "What is with these? Do you paint them on, or--" he demanded, struggling while Theon laughed. Finally he deigned to help, and together they shoved his skinny jeans halfway down his thighs and he could tug the waistband of Theon's boxer-briefs down far enough to reveal the head of his cock.

Theon patted Jon's head affectionately. "If you need any help, let me know," he murmured with a smirk. "I'll talk you through it."

Jon sat back on his heels, hands braced on Theon's thighs. "I've done this before, you know."

"You have?" Theon frowned down at him. This clearly perturbed him.

"You're not my first guy," Jon said, and to accentuate the point he leaned forward and sucked the tip of Theon's cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head.

Theon squeaked, and then tried to sublimate it into a manlier grunt.

"Who?" he demanded when Jon pulled off, licking his lips.

"None of your business," Jon said, annoyed.

Theon appeared to be stuck on this. "When?"

"Do you really want to talk about this _right now?_"

Belatedly Theon seemed to realize that keeping Jon's mouth occupied with talking would by necessity keep it off Theon's dick.

"Nope. Continue."

Jon took his time. It _had_ been awhile. He kept one hand at the base of Theon's shaft and mouthed tentatively at the head, taking pleasure in the silent shudder that ran down Theon's slim frame. He kept it shallow, not wanting to choke, and instead concentrated on getting him nice and wet.

The hand of the back of his head tightened, pressed.

Jon made a firm negatory sound and it eased off, lightening into a caress.

"All right, all right. Don't get your panties in a twist." Theon said it almost affectionately.

Maybe it was better Jon's mouth was occupied, so he couldn't respond. Instead he ran his tongue over the slit, making Theon gasp.

Jon pulled off again. "Quiet," he warned.

"Fuck," Theon whispered. His thumb touched the corner of of Jon's mouth, rubbed at the wetness there. "You look good. You want to take it deeper?"

It wasn't the request that made Jon agree, but the slight shake in Theon's voice. Theon's cock was heavy on his tongue as he tried to slide further down, and his eyes watered at the weight, the burn.

Jon looked up. Theon's head was flung back, the line of his throat prominent in the moonlight.

Jon was painfully hard in his jeans. He reached down with his free hand and rubbed himself as best he could with thick denim in the way.

"Fuck," he heard breathed above him. Theon was watching him with a dark hunger, lips parted. "Yeah, _fuck_ yeah, touch yourself, you love it so much, you love sucking my cock."

He didn't say it like an insult, just a fact. His hand tightened in Jon's hair. Jon tried to breathe, calm himself, but it was a lot—the weight of Theon's dick in his mouth, the salt-musk taste of his skin, his dirty encouraging whispers. He pulled back to suck hard at the tip and lave the sensitive underside with his tongue, and felt in the way that Theon lurched suddenly that his knees had almost buckled.

Theon cupped the back of head and began fucking his mouth. Jon could only hold on, letting go of his own cock to clutch at the back of Theon's thighs while his hips snapped, pushing him into Jon's mouth.

It was almost too much for him to take. But Theon only went as deep as Jon had allowed, he realized with a frisson of warmth, so Jon took it—took him—as best he could. 

"I'm gonna . . ." Theon said in a strained, urgent voice with another tug to Jon's hair. But instead of pulling off, Jon made an encouraging sound.

Jon was prepared for it, but he had forgotten the salty, bitter taste that exploded on his tongue. He did his best to swallow it all, but some of it, a few drops, spilled over his lips and chin. When it seemed like it might be over, Theon grabbed the base of his cock in a tight grip and squeezed from root to tip, pushing out another fat drop that he smeared onto Jon's upper lip.

He stared down at Jon for a long moment, eyes wide and dark. When Jon moved to wipe his chin, Theon tugged at his hair again.

"_No_," Theon said roughly, hauling him up. Jon was wobbly and nearly crashed into him as Theon proceeded to lick and suck every last drop of his own come from Jon's face.

Narcissist, Jon thought at first, but that didn't feel quite right. It was more possessive, a kind of claim. His kiss was deep and probing, like he was trying to lick the taste of himself from Jon's mouth, and it left Jon grinding against Theon's hip a little plaintively, trying to get some relief.

Theon broke off the kiss. "Rubbing yourself on me like a dog," he said, not without affection. "Or a wolf, I suppose."

"Are you gonna do anything about it?"

Theon seemed to consider the question. Then, just as Jon was about to give up and jerk himself off, Theon switched places with him, pushing him up to the rail so that he faced out over the spillway. Theon pushed himself up against Jon's back. One of his hands snuck under Jon's shirt to press flat against his stomach, while the other slipped down to rub against the front of Jon's jeans.

Jon rocked forward into the pressure gratefully. At his back Theon was a hot presence, a counterpoint to the chilly spring breeze that wafted over his front, lifting the ends of his hair.

"I want," said Theon's low, warm voice at his ear, "to hear about all these guys."

Jon was paying too much attention to the palm rubbing hypnotically over his dick to really process Theon's words. "What?"

The hand stopped. Jon groaned.

"All the guys you've been fucking on the DL, apparently." Amusement was laced with an edge of danger in Theon's voice.

"Now?" Jon said, bewildered and a little desperate. This was much worse than before.

"Wait, don't tell me," said Theon, resting his chin on Jon's shoulder and humming thoughtfully. "Was Ygritte your _beard?_ Are you _that_ repressed?" Theon's voice threatened laughter.

Jon drove his elbow back into Theon's ribs. Anger warred with arousal, and anger won.

"It wasn't like that. Don't say stuff like that. Will you just . . ." He faltered.

Theon ran a finger over the seam, agonizingly slow. "Tell me. Then I'll keep going." His finger tapped a promise on the button.

"Why do you even want to know?"

"Call me curious." 

"It's not an interesting story."

Theon gave him a quick squeeze that was more frustrating than satisfying. "I'll be the judge of that. Start talking."

"I'm not gay. I'm serious."

He could hear the smirk in Theon's response. "Right. You're not gay. You just fuck men."

"Not _men._ Just one guy. One guy before you."

Theon popped the button of Jon's jeans and pulled the zipper down, tooth by tortuous tooth.

"Keep going," murmured Theon. "You're not gay, but . . ."

Maybe it was the strange, unexpected situation, or maybe it was Theon himself, satisfied and lazy, but Jon found himself talking.

"But I thought I might be, once."

Theon's hand slipped below the waistband of Jon's boxers and gave him a few quick strokes. Jon grabbed the railing with a shudder and closed his eyes.

"Before I went to college . . . there wasn't anyone. Anyone I was interested in. So I thought I might be, you know."

"Let me get this straight. You weren't into anyone at all, so . . . you thought you were gay?"

Huffs of incredulous laughter warmed Jon's neck.

"Fuck off," Jon muttered. Theon's hand tightened, and Jon thrust into it.

"So there was a guy," Theon prompted.

"A friend," corrected Jon. "He's gay. I asked him how he knew. And then we . . ."

"Experimented in a college dorm room like the cliché you are," supplied Theon. He pulled Jon's earlobe between his lips and sucked on it.

Jon bit out, "That's the story. Are you happy now?"

Theon hummed, making Jon's whole skull vibrate. "What happened next?"

"I met Ygritte." 

"And she swept you off your feet. I bet"—Theon paused to sink his teeth into the shell of Jon's ear before continuing to whisper—"I bet you were so happy. To be normal again. Am I right?"

Jon flushed.

"Am I?" 

Jon gave the tiniest nod.

"Bet your friend wasn't happy, though."

Jon tried to take a deep breath. "Why do you say that?"

Theon spit on one of his hands and started pumping Jon's shaft with it. With the other, he rubbed the head of Jon's dick, smearing around the pre-come and slicking the head. His cock was leaking prodigiously now, begging to come. Jon bucked into his grip and moaned softly.

"His being dumped like that. You know he was in love with you."

"What?" Jon choked out. 

Theon's laugh had a sharp, derisive edge, and his squeeze at the tip of Jon's dick was almost painful. "Fucking _everyone_ is, man. You're the only one who doesn't see it."

Jon boggled at this intrusion from bizarro world. "I didn't dump him. He dumped me."

"I know you can't see it, but my face is registering some serious skepticism right now, FYI."

"It's true," Jon protested. "He—he said he didn't want to, to mess up our friendship by making things complicated."

Theon snorted. "So he _was_ in love with you."

Blood pounded in Jon's ears. Theon was stroking him with both hands now, from the head to the base again and again, creating the intensely pleasurable sensation of going endlessly _in-in-in_.

Jon shook his head wildly. "Not him. Me. It was me. I was too attached. I didn't—I couldn't—I couldn't admit it. Even to myself. We were sleeping together, and I still couldn't . . . He never said anything, but. I think he knew."

"Come on, Jon, come," murmured Theon in his ear, and Jon came as hard as he ever had in his life. It pulsed out of him in hot spurts, leaving him trembling and weak-kneed.

He leaned his forearms on the rail and lowered his forehead so that it rested on the cool surface. He felt as drained and depleted as if he'd run a marathon.

"Ten bucks—no, twenty—no, a hundred—"

"_What._"

Theon came up beside him and ran his fingers through Jon's hair. Jon cocked an ear toward him obligingly, and Theon leaned down to whisper in it.

"It'd bet you a hundred bucks he _was_ in love with you."

Jon shook his head, less at the allegation and more at Theon himself, his arrogance and surety. 

"A thousand dollars," Theon promised.

He didn't even know why he'd told Theon that; he'd never even really admitted it to himself, only nudged against the broad, blunt shape of the idea in the back of his mind. Surely it was a weapon that could be turned against him—especially in the hands of Theon Greyjoy. 

"What was his name, anyway?" Theon asked.

"None of your business," Jon said with finality. He straightened and tucked himself away. When he turned back, he saw that Theon had done the same. 

Theon threw an arm around Jon's shoulders companionably, as if they were friends. Jon supposed to his surprise that they sort of were.

"So can I look forward to you falling in desperate, agonizing, repressed gay love with me?"

Jon huffed and shoved him. "Absolutely not."

"I'm just saying, I would understand."

* * *

Sansa hugged him at the door to his apartment. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry for taking you away from the party. You should go back. Have some fun."

Sansa's smile turned mischievous. "That's the plan! Mya said the Greyjoy Halloween party usually goes on until, like, six in the morning."

Jon wouldn't know, as Theon had never invited him before this year. "Tell Mya it was nice to meet her, even though . . . well, everything," he said apologetically.

"Don't worry about it," Sansa said dismissively. "She'll understand. Good night! Sleep tight! Don't let the bedbugs bite!"

She hurried back to Mya's car, shivering, as she was wearing tights and no jacket would fit over her wings. Jon felt sorry all over again for lying to her. But karma came back around in the form of watching Mya take her hand and kiss her.

It took three fumbled tries to unlock the front door. Finally he shoved it open and stumbled into the foyer. His skin was numb from the cold, and he tore off his button-down and fake glasses, dropping them on the floor.

He didn't see Sam and considered waking him up, until he remembered Sam was away for the weekend.

Much as he loathed the idea of talking to anyone or having anyone even see him right then, Sam would be okay. Jon would reluctantly tell him everything over a cup of one of Sam's funky herbal teas. Jon would bemoan that he was a fucking idiot, that this was Satin all over again, that he _knew_ Theon Greyjoy, that he deserved every bit of it for being so stupid. Sam would offer sympathetic noises and a quiet demurral. Perhaps he would say that there was nothing wrong with seeing the best in people. Or he would laugh a gentle, nonjudgmental laugh and say Jon catching a case of the feelings was not the end of the world. Jon wouldn't believe it, but it would have been comforting nonetheless.

It didn't work so well when he said it to himself. Tugging the t-shirt off, Jon nearly dropped it before catching a glimpse of the big _S_. He remembered it was Robb's shirt, Robb's costume in the first place.

He wadded it up and shoved it down into the laundry hamper where he wouldn't have to look at it.

Theon was Robb's, too: somehow, he'd forgotten that. A brief period of insanity had convinced him things could be otherwise for once.

Anger at Robb lit him up from the inside for a long, burning moment.

Then it was washed away by a wave of shame. It wasn't Robb's fault. Jon doubted he knew anything about Theon's feelings. The problem was with Jon.

He was supposed to be living his own life, he reminded himself as he slid under the comforter and pulled it over his head. He'd gone to a different college and made his own friends and gotten his own roommate and his own job. He wasn't supposed to want Robb's things anymore.

His phone chimed with a text. Dreading it, Jon turned it over.

It was Sansa. She'd gone back to the party.

**Sansa**: It's too bad you're not here to see this!  
**Sansa**: Theon's lost his marbles!  
**Sansa**: Wait, I'll send you a picture.

Jon groaned a protest, but there was no time to send a message before the photo appeared.

The lighting made it difficult to make out, but given the context of Sansa's messages the shirtless figure standing on the table was, he suspected, Theon. He was surrounded by a crowd, which of course he was loving. 

**Sansa**: What's going on with him???  
**Sansa**: I'm pretty sure he just drank a whole keg!!!  
**Sansa**: He's going on and on about how love is something corporations made up to sell chocolates and flowers  
**Sansa**: Oh no. Maybe he overheard us???  
**Sansa**: I would feel SO bad if that were the case

Each appeared only a few moments after the last, Sansa being the queen of quick-but-correctly-spelled texting, so that the effect was an agonizing barrage. Jon was in the middle of typing _I'm trying to sleep_ when a whooshing sound accompanied another text.

**Sansa**: Oh good, Robb is taking care of him

Jon's stomach lurched. He wondered if Robb was going to hold Theon's hair back when he was hungover. Maybe that was Theon's entire goal, the point of all this.

He didn't want to read any more updates from Sansa, so he turned the sound off on his phone and tried to fall asleep. But it was a long time before his brain stopped buzzing.

* * *

When he first began to drift in the direction of wakefulness, Jon thought hazily the noises he was hearing were the sounds of construction nearby. It was all manner of bangs and slams, hammers and thunks.

Then he realized the sounds were coming from inside his own apartment.

The grogginess fled, chased away by adrenaline. Jon crept out of bed and retrieved a baseball bat from his closet, careful not to make a sound. The crack in his bedroom door revealed nothing.

Finally he opened the door and stepped out.

And promptly dropped the bat.

Jon tried to scrub the sleep from his eyes, but didn't bother for the irritation in his voice.

"What the fuck, Theon?"

Several of his cabinets were hanging open, presumably in the process of being banged around. The light in the entryway was on, illuminating a wan, dark Theon with unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes.

Ignoring Jon's question, Theon cracked open the window, flung himself into the nearby armchair, and lit a cigarette.

"Hey!" Jon said indignantly. "I don't care what pissed in your cheerios, you can't smoke in my apartment!"

Theon made an extravagant Vanna White gesture that encompassed the cigarette, the open window, and the mug Jon hadn't noticed that Theon evidently intended to use as an ashtray.

It was one of Sam's, the special ones he didn't even let Jon use to drink coffee because, he said, the coffee flavor leached into the ceramic and ruined the delicate flavors of his favorite teas.

Under Theon's baleful glare, Jon stomped to the cabinet and retrieved one of his own mugs, swapping them out. As he leaned over, he caught a whiff of what might have been tequila on Theon's breath.

Jon stared at him, remembering Sansa's late-night texts. "Are you hungover?"

Theon flashed him a sickly grin. "Can't be hungover if you never stop drinking. God, you really do know nothing."

"How did you get here?" demanded Jon. He couldn't have walked; it was too far away. His mind supplied a series of disturbing images: Theon behind the wheel, Theon in an accident, Theon lying bloodied and dying by the side of the road.

"Robb drove me."

"Robb drove you," Jon repeated slowly.

"Yes. Robb. Your brother? Excuse me, _half_-brother. You do remember him?" Theon took a drag and let it out slowly toward the crack in the window, obviously relishing the moment.

"I know who he is."

"I told him everything."

It felt like a cold hand was reaching between his ribs and squeezing his heart mercilessly. "You told him," Jon said unsteadily, "everything." 

"Fuck, are you going to repeat everything I say? Maybe _you're_ the drunk one, hmm? Did you ever think of that?" Theon said with drunk logic.

"You're out of your mind," Jon snapped. "What are you doing here?"

Theon pointed at him. "Good question. Excellent question. I asked that a number of times on the way over. He said he wanted us to, quote, work it out, unquote."

"What does that even mean?" 

"You'll have to ask him. Do let me know."

"You are the only person I know who actually sounds smarter when you get drunk," Jon muttered.

Theon grinned at him and Jon forgot himself long enough to smile back.

A loud beep interrupted this moment of madness.

"I made coffee," explained Theon, as if this made sense. "You're welcome."

Sure enough, Jon did smell coffee. He was honestly surprised Theon knew how to make coffee.

He poured himself a mug and retrieved his phone from his bedroom. He had no idea what was going on, but maybe someone else did. Or maybe he just wanted to delay this . . . whatever it was.

There was a series of additional messages from Sansa.

_I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY!!!!_  
I'm sure he loves you now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
Please forgive me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :'( :'( :'(

None of this he knew what to do with, except the humiliating part where Sansa had gleaned something of what was happening between him and Theon. What had been happening, he reminded himself.

He sighed and returned to the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch. Theon paid him so little mind he was obviously doing it on purpose. Jon stretched his feet out in front of him. Stared at them. Something didn't add up.

"Robb wants us to . . . work it out?"

Theon waved a hand. "I really don't know. It's a blur."

Work it out as friends, surely, that was Robb's intention. Except they weren't friends. Make peace, then. As they always had, burying everything. Robb did always prefer blissful ignorance. But his usual method was to ignore things, not force them out into the open like this.

"What did you tell him again?" asked Jon.

"Everything," Theon said, over-enunciating like Jon was five.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time. But—what’s _everything?_"

Theon flicked his fingers. A smattering of ashes fell onto the windowsill. "Everything. Sordid and seedy hookups. You being an asshole. My broken heart. Similar assorted dirty little secrets."

Theon's tone was a poor facsimile of his typical carelessness, which Jon recognized as already a farce. His words, his bearing, the way his eyes would linger on Jon before he realized what he was doing and jerked them away—they were all painting a picture in Jon's mind that was slowly becoming clearer, but which he wasn't sure he wanted to look at just yet.

So he took a sip of his coffee. And promptly spat it right back out.

"I thought you said you made coffee."

It was something coffee-adjacent, but thin and weak and old-tasting.

"_How_ did you make coffee?" asked Jon, bemused.

"I put some water in the thingy and pushed the button. Is that not how you plebeians make your own hot bean juice when you're too elitist to just go to Starbucks like everybody else?" Theon demanded. Ah. Yesterday's grounds. That explained it.

"I don't think you can be both an elitist and a plebeian," Jon felt compelled to point out.

Theon, predictably, rolled his eyes.

Part of Jon wanted to talk to Robb at that moment. It would be awful in its own way, but it wouldn't be like trying to pry blood from a stone.

"When you say broken heart . . ." Jon said, turning his cup in his hand.

"Fuck you."

"You said it, not me."

"I was being fascist . . . fashion . . ."

"Facetious," supplied Jon.

Theon snapped his fingers. "Exactly."

"What if I said I didn't believe you?"

At his words Theon didn't say anything, though Jon could feel the silence like a palpable presence. People hardly ever took Theon seriously, including Jon. It was a reaction Theon cultivated, encouraged even.

"Last night, when Sansa said . . . what she said . . . I was upset."

Theon snorted loudly.

A few months ago, that might have been enough to make Jon shut up and not bother, but he'd been getting practice at plowing through Theon's walls, so he kept going.

"It hit a nerve."

Theon's hand inscribed a lazy, large circle in the air. "No shit. People can see your issues with Robb from space."

"Yeah," Jon said, surprising them both. Theon's hand stilled, dropped, as if defeated. It spurred Jon to continue. "I don't like feeling like I'm competing with Robb."

Theon scoffed. "Bullshit. You don't like _losing_. You like winning just fine."

Jon ran his hand through his hair and blew out a breath, stung and trying not to be. "You're . . . not wrong.”

"Duh. Also," said Theon, "here's a few things. A, it's none of your fucking business anyway. It was a million years ago. Whatever. B, I'm not some kind of prize."

"Pretty sure I knew that already," Jon muttered.

"Fuck off. My _point_ is, I'm not a toy you can steal. I do what I want. And C . . ." Theon trailed off.

"C?" prompted Jon after a minute.

"Did I say I do what I want already?"

Jon tried not to smile. "Yeah."

"Well, that's it. That's all the things. The important shit."

"Got it." Jon hesitated. "It's not . . . it wasn't like that, anyway."

At Theon's disbelieving sound, Jon said, "It's not! Yeah, I was pissed about Robb. I said some things I shouldn't have. I didn't know where we stood or what we were doing. Maybe it was . . . more than I thought it was. I freaked."

The silence following his words made Jon's stomach clench with dread. Part of him wanted to call the words back.

Theon sagged back into the armchair. "Dickhead," he said finally.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

Theon snorted. "Are you kidding me?"

Jon took that for a no. 

"It was a long fucking time ago, I don't know what you're being such a pussy about."

"Sansa said . . ."

"Yeah. Consider the source. She thinks it's some epic gay tragedy or some shit."

"You hit on her," Jon reminded him. "If it was because she looks like Robb . . ."

"You fucking don't, do you, so that should be reassuring. Besides, I hit on everyone when I'm drunk. You included, I might add."

"So you've been sleeping with me for other reasons? Because it's not like you were drunk every time."

Theon took a hard puff of his cigarette. "Yeah. Because I wanted to," he said furiously. "Believe me or don't, I don't give a fuck."

"Do you still want to?" Jon could barely hear himself over the thumping of his heart.

"Do you?" Theon returned, so wary and guarded that Jon knew the answer, which made it easier to say, quietly,

"Yeah."

Theon stared at him, wide-eyed, until suddenly he hissed and dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor, cursing. "Fuck! Shit!" 

Jon leapt up to prevent the apartment from burning down. He scooped up the end of the cigarette—it had burned down to the filter—and put it out in the mug.

"You okay?" he asked Theon, who was shaking his hand.

At the question, he immediately stopped and glared at Jon. "I'm not a wuss."

Jon knew better. Theon was very good at enjoying the pleasures of life. Not so much the pains.

Tentatively Jon sat on the arm of Theon's chair. It was a bit like approaching a semi-feral animal and trying to convince it to trust you. His fingertips touched Theon's hair, then his palm settled lightly, experimentally, on the back of Theon's neck.

That was all it took. Theon slumped into him, settling his head in Jon's lap. A sound, plaintive and without pretense, issued from him. Pleased, Jon rubbed the ends of Theon's hair between his fingertips.

Of course, Theon being Theon, he ruined the moment almost immediately. "I'm going to throw up here in a minute."

Jon sighed. "Thanks for the warning."

He stood, pulled a swaying Theon to his feet, and led him in the direction of the bathroom.

"Don't tell me you're going to hold my hair back or some sappy shit like that."

"I would never," promised Jon. For once, he didn't mind the lie.


End file.
